Red Light
by abrynne
Summary: The numbers never stop coming. From the point of view of the next number. One month after the events of "Lest Ye Be Judged". Special thanks to my sister, Cecily, for giving me this idea in the first place.
1. Client

Continued from "Lest Ye Be Judged". If you are just now checking out one of my stories, I highly recommend checking out "Dark Horse" first and reading on from there. :)

Fair warning: While this is a continuation in the series, it is different from the other installments.

Team Machine never stops working. Enjoy!

* * *

One month later.

_… Surveillance Footage: east entrance, camera #2; east 89th street bus terminal_

_July 22, 2012 – 3:04pm_

_Subject A sits alone, awaiting the next bus. She sets her bag down beside her and turns, distracted. Subject B seats himself next to her, reaches into the bag. His hand comes out empty._

_Subject A looks back to see him stand up again, and walk by. She touches her bag, pulling it closer as he leaves the terminal._

_Threat detected…_

_Subject: Natasha M._

* * *

One would think that after so many years of working the streets, one would be used to the job by now. Unfortunately, it was something she never could get used to. It was a job, and a girl had to eat. But that never consoled her when she took them home, or when they dragged her to a motel; when they breathed and sweated over her, calling her baby, sweetheart, or another name they'd make up for her, as if she were some sort of temporary pet.

If that's all they did, she was grateful. Others weren't as kind. But, that was the job; and there were always worse things.

Tasha remembered when she first started, a woman named Gloria had taken her under her wing. Gloria helped Tasha gain the right mind set for the job. She helped her with her set of rules, because every woman who works the streets has their own set of rules. They had to, otherwise things could get ugly.

Eventually, that's what happened to Gloria. She had fallen into the trap that so many of the girls do. She had fallen in love with a client. No matter what movies and Julia Roberts taught them, falling in love was one of the worst things that could happen to a woman of Tasha's occupation.

Gloria had been so stupid! After all that she had taught Tasha, she went back on her own rules and fell for some white collar douche bag with money and a wife. She ran away with him before she realized she was pregnant.

Tasha had not seen her since.

That was one thing that Tasha never worried about. Falling for a man would never happen to her. Out of the two of them, Tasha found that she still preferred men; but usually outside of striking distance. She'd had enough of men earlier in her life. Her work was only what she did to keep herself from sleeping on the streets as well as walking them.

It was just a job.

Her purse slipped down to the crook in her elbow as she walked. It was late, close to her usual start time. Tasha set the purse back onto her shoulder and stopped at a corner.

"Hey, Red," a girl said. She was already at the corner, lighting a cigarette and waiting. Tasha tried to remember her name, Sandy? Not that it mattered much. Tasha only had a couple of friends, and they usually worked the higher class parts of town. They were the ones who called Tasha by her name.

"It's kind of slow," Sandy continued, tossing her dark, curly locks over her tanned shoulder.

"There's always someone, though," Tasha said.

"Always," Sandy agreed. She lifted the cigarette to her lips and took a drag, the tip glowing a bright orange in the darkness of the street. "I've seen you around before. Some of the others don't care much for you." She laughed and took another drag.

Sandy was giving her old news. "I can find another place," she said.

Sandy shrugged. "Makes no difference to me, Red. You have a good look, but so do I. I don't mind working a little harder."

"Thanks."

It was summer, for which Tasha was very grateful. Working the streets in the winter was difficult, but the clients were usually plentiful. People – men craved companionship more so in colder weather. Yet, in the summer, the streets stayed warm, even at night, making at least a small part of her job a little easier.

Tasha stood with Sandy, avoiding the second hand smoke as best as she could. It was better to stay in a group. Working an area alone could turn dangerous.

Sandy blew out another puff of smoke and tapped the ashes onto the sidewalk with her freshly manicured nails. They were red to match her lipstick, which clashed greatly with the short, pink dress she wore. It was so tight that Tasha suspected she had to pour herself into it.

Tasha's dress wasn't far off from that. It was a little longer, and sleeveless – a bright blue that contrasted with her long red hair; the origination of her nick name. No one ever called her by her real name. And Tasha couldn't count how many times she had been asked if her hair color was real. It was, along with her deep green eyes. With her look, and the dresses she chose, Tasha hoped to eventually move up to classier areas and clientele. It wasn't the dream, but it was better than where she was.

Sandy cleared her throat and pointed with her cigarette.

"Drink of water at ten o'clock," she said in a slightly raspy voice.

Tasha followed the cigarette and saw a tall someone walking towards them. There was no doubt it was a man. Time to go to work.

"I saw him first," Sandy said, and walked away, approaching the gentleman.

She stopped him under one of the streetlights and Tasha got a better look at him. He definitely was tall, very clean cut, wearing a dark suit. He stopped as Sandy approached him, and put his hands in his pockets.

Let her have him, Tasha thought. I can still make rent if I don't get anyone tonight. She watched Sandy toss her hair flirtatiously, looking up at him, and moving closer. To her surprise, however, he sidestepped Sandy when he saw Tasha, and headed toward her.

Tasha never could stop the fast beating of her heart, the fear and anger that all boiled up inside of her whenever a man rested his eyes upon her. She'd done the job for so long that she believed she'd be numb to it by now. But it would never go away. Perhaps it was because the looks she always received were so transparent. She knew what a man was thinking without him having to say a word.

Tasha put on her smile, and dropped her arms loosely at her sides as he approached.

"Hey, baby," she said, brushing her hair away from her forehead.

"Hey," he replied, smiling. He was good looking, but that didn't mean a damn thing. He appeared to look her over with sharp blue eyes. Now that she was closer, he was older than she thought at first. The blue eyes had fine lines around them, as did his mouth. And there were flecks of gray at his temples. Didn't mean a damn thing.

"Are you looking for something?" Tasha asked, dropping the bait as it were.

"I was," he said. "I think I've found her."

Tasha smiled, hiding the fact that she noticed him saying 'her' instead of 'it', as a lot of men have in the past. To this man, she was still a person. That was subject to change, however, as the night went on.

"Have you got a name?" She asked. She stepped closer to him, and ran her fingers along the collar of his suit jacket.

"John," he said.

They heard a scream, and Tasha looked up along with her potential client.

Sandy fell hard to the ground. Two men, all in black, stepped past her, towards Tasha and John.

Terrified, Tasha stepped away, wondering how fast she could run in the shoes she had on when John engaged both men at once. They never got a hit off of him, not once. Tasha felt her mouth open in a perfect O as she watched John knock both men unconscious to the ground in just a few seconds. She wanted to run, but she was frozen to the spot on the sidewalk.

John turned toward her and the difference in his expression and body language from just a moment before was staggering. His face was hard, his eyes flashing, and his entire frame seemed to stand taller with a tension like a wound spring.

He strode over to her. Tasha backed away from him, but he grabbed onto her arm, and dragged her along with him.

His grip was strong, and was hurting her. "No, no, I don't want to go!" she said. "Let me go!" she struggled, attempting to pull her arm away, but he was too strong.

"If I do that, you'll be dead," John said as they rounded a corner.

Tasha kept swallowing down her panic, but it was quickly overcoming her as John dragged her over to a black sedan and unlocked it.

She was being kidnapped! Kidnapped by some crazy, ninja assassin! Tasha dragged her feet and fought with him until he chucked her into the front seat of the car and shut the door.

John got into the driver's seat. "Listen, Natasha," he said.

Tasha's panic turned to ice. He already knew her name. How could he know that? She pulled her purse into her lap and slowly reached into it as he started the car.

"They were coming for you," John continued.

Tasha barely heard him as her fear and panic morphed into a plan of escape. She pulled at the seatbelt, and started yanking on it so it stuck. She pulled and pulled, making a show out of it until John noticed.

He reached across her, leaning in next to her to grab a hold of the seatbelt. Tasha's speed surprised even her. She pulled the tazer out of her purse, pressed it against the nape of his neck, and turned it on.

John let out a groan as his body trembled with the current running through it, and he collapsed, slumped over the center console in the car.

Tasha pushed him off of her and scrambled for the door handle. She got out of the car and ran for it, moving faster than she expected in those shoes.


	2. New

Their number was gone, and John wasn't responding. After trying for a half hour to get a hold of him, Finch ventured out to find him.

He found the car, and John unconscious inside. Finch felt for a pulse in his throat. It was racing.

"Mr. Reese," Finch said. "John?" He raised his voice and shook him a little.

John let out a moan of pain and slowly opened his eyes.

"Are you all right?"

John sat up and squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "I will be in a minute."

"You were attacked by one prostitute?" Finch asked blatantly.

John glared at him and rubbed his neck. "I was tazed by a hooker." He gingerly touched the burn marks on his neck.

Finch hid his smile. His mind automatically pictured Sam's reaction at seeing John tazed by a hooker. It was a shame she wasn't around to see it, or even hear about it. But, back to the matter at hand. "Fortunately, you're still connected with her phone, so we can find her."

John rotated his head and cracked his neck in a couple of places before he started the car.

"She's a runner. She'll try running again," he said. "She was already scared, Finch."

"Which would explain her reaction to you."

"I usually get a better reaction."

"Generally, yes," Finch pulled out his phone and opened the GPS tracker. "We may want to try a more delicate approach with her."

"Delicate?" John said. "She stuck me with a tazer, Finch."

"So, in order to avoid further injuries, we should be more delicate, wouldn't you agree?" Finch looked thoughtful for a moment. "You are fortunate, though. I have read that with that much current running through the body, loss of bladder control is often a result."

John pulled the car out onto the street.

* * *

The door to her apartment burst open and slammed shut as Tasha ran inside. Without turning on the lights, she locked every single lock on the door that was available, and moved to the one window in the room. She closed and locked it, and pulled the cheap curtains across it.

Tasha wiped the tears off of her face as she tried to breathe. Hold it together, Tasha. Stop and think. Tasha dropped her purse on her bed and walked purposefully into the bathroom, the only separate room in her tiny apartment. She turned on the light, and looked in the mirror. Her mascara was beginning to run, and her lipstick was smudged.

Grabbing a clip from the counter, Tasha twisted her hair up and out of the way at the back of her head. That man in the suit, John, said that those men were after her. Well, fine. If someone was coming after her, she'd make herself as difficult to find as possible. She'd worry about the reasoning behind all of it later.

Tasha took off her heels and marched back into the main apartment. She opened a narrow door next to her bed, and shoved the junk and clothes out of the way. The suitcase didn't come out easily, but after a minute of yanking and jerking, Tasha pulled it free, and set it on the bed.

* * *

The suitcase was filled with haphazardly tossed in clothes, hair and skin products. Tasha was pulling on a pair of jeans, her blue dress thrown on the bed. The only light in the place came in from the bathroom. Figuring if there was someone after her, she believed quite reasonably, that keeping the lights off, and her drapes shut would give the unconscious signal that no one was home.

Tasha went to the suitcase for a top and jumped at the soft tap on the door. She stood very still, holding a tank top in her hands. She stared at the door, hoping that they'd just go away.

She trembled at the second knock. Tasha tiptoed around the bed to the door and peeked through the peep hole. A simple-looking man, wearing glasses and a three piece suit, stood on the other side. He looked harmless enough, but Tasha held her breath, still holding on to the hope that he'd give up.

"Natasha?" he said and knocked on the door a third time. He didn't shout, nor did he bang on the door, frustrated that she was leaving him out there. "I know you're scared. You proved that when you attacked a friend of mine and left him in that car."

Tasha closed her eyes in regret for a moment. When she was running away, she remembered hoping that she hadn't caused any permanent damage. He hadn't really hurt her after all. Technically.

"We only want to help you. You have my word." He turned at the sound of someone shouting at him from down the hall. He backed away a little, out of the view of the peep hole.

Tasha weighed her options and, still with some reluctance, started on the door locks. She pulled on the tank top, and turned on the lights before opening the door a crack.

The man was just barely taller than her, and he appeared relieved when she opened the door.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Harold."

"How do you know my name?"

His large eyes flicked down the hallway once more. "It may be best if we discuss this with a little more privacy," he suggested.

Tasha nodded and opened the door fully, allowing him in.

He walked in – well, walked wasn't the correct word exactly. He hobbled in. Harold kept his back stiff as he walked with a limp into her apartment. Tasha shut the door as he turned to look at her. He turned stiffly with his back, not his neck. She tilted her head curiously at him. Tasha had never met a man who gave the impression that he was as harmless as a kitten. But, Harold was quickly meeting that description.

"Um – yeah – okay," Tasha cleared a spot off on the edge of the bed. "Sorry, I don't have very much furniture."

Harold took the seat gratefully, the cheap mattress sinking under his weight. "No need to apologize Miss Murphy. And I know your name, because I – we work from a source that gives us the ability to get to a person, you for instance, before they become the victim of a crime."

He wasn't lying. Tasha had worked with enough people, enough men of all shapes and sizes that she had become a very good people reader. She could tell whenever she was being lied to, or wasn't being told the entire story. This man, Harold, was being honest. He never looked away from her as he spoke. And he appeared relaxed, his hands resting in his lap while he explained things to her.

"So, what is the crime supposed to be that I am the victim of?" She asked, folding her arms in front of her.

"The only thing we know so far is that someone very powerful wants you dead."

"Who?"

"We're still working on that, I'm afraid."

Tasha sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose.

"I know this is frustrating for you, Natasha – "

"Tasha," she corrected. "People usually call me Tasha."

"As you wish," Harold said with a nod. "I know that these two strangers coming out of the blue, claiming to help you puts you in a difficult situation. I'm a very private person, myself. Trust doesn't come easily to me, so I do understand what you're feeling. All I can ask of you is that you trust me just for a little while. We need to hide you somewhere safe until we know who is coming after you and why."

"Where will you take me?"

"Most likely a hotel, or a safe house where they won't think to look for you," he answered truthfully. "They will find you if you stay here. I can promise you that."

Tasha looked at this man, blinking up at her through his glasses, and tried to find fault. She tried to find a crack that she could exploit and break through, exposing the true motivation for his following her to her apartment, but there wasn't one.

"I don't get it," she said. "You know what I do for a living, right?"

"I do."

"Nobody cares if a hooker gets killed, Harold. What's one more girl who sells herself for money? She's throwing her life away anyway, right?"

"Do you believe that?"

"I'm more interested in what you believe."

Harold got to his feet and looked her in the eye. "I believe that you are a human being, a woman who is in danger. That, Tasha, is all that concerns me right now." Harold held out his hand to her. "Will you let me help you?"

Never in her life had Tasha encountered a man who had her best interests at heart. It was an entirely new experience, and she couldn't make heads or tails of it. In the back of her mind, she was still waiting for Harold's true colors to come through.

Tasha took a breath. She bit her lip, looking away from Harold for a moment as the choice loomed before her. She moved over to the other side of the bed, grabbed her purse, phone and keys and approached Harold again.

"I'll come with you," she said.

Harold opened the door for her, and, after she locked her apartment, offered his arm to her. She blinked at it. This guy was just a barrel full of new experiences! With a surreal sort of uncertainty Tasha took his arm, and they walked at his slower pace down the hallway.

And hey, at least she would be able to outrun him if things went south.


	3. Safe

Harold led her to the same black sedan that John had shoved her into earlier. He opened the back door for her and she slid into the back seat, meeting the sharp blue eyes in the rearview mirror.

They flicked away from her as Harold got into the front passenger seat.

"I'm impressed, Finch," John said as he started the car. "I expected to find you lying in a dumpster, covered in MACE."

Tasha felt herself flush shamefully at the comment.

"Sometimes it's better to use your words, Mr. Reese," Harold replied.

The blue eyes went back to her for a moment. Tasha couldn't read them. That's what it was about this John Reese person. It bothered her before when they first met on the street, but she couldn't put her finger on what it was. She couldn't read him like other people. He buried everything so deeply, that what he felt was made evident on his face only when he allowed it. Someone with that much control was nerve wracking.

Tasha shrank down in her seat when his eyes met hers again in the reflection of the mirror. "I'm sorry I hurt you."

"No hard feelings," John replied. Though he smiled a little as he said the words, Tasha didn't know for sure if she believed him.

They drove and drove, across the East River, and further after that until Tasha wondered if they were planning on just driving around all night rather than stopping somewhere.

She rested her head back on the seat, watching the lights from the streets and traffic move across the ceiling of the car.

* * *

The next thing she knew, she was opening her eyes to meet Harold's looking in through the open back door. Oh yes, that's right. She must have dozed off.

"You'll be safe here, Tasha," he said.

Tasha slid out of the back seat and stepped onto the curb. They were in a neighborhood she didn't recognize. John was already walking up the front steps to one of the houses. He unlocked the front door and went inside first, drawing a weapon from underneath the suit jacket he wore.

"Whose house is this?"

"Right now, it's yours," Harold said as he walked with her up the steps. "Hopefully, you'll only be here a short time before we find out who is coming after you."

Harold allowed Tasha to enter first. She stepped onto a polished wood floor in a quaint entry way. A doorway opened to her right and she looked into a fully furnished living room. John was closing the curtains over the large front window.

"No one else lives here?" Tasha tried again as she wandered into the kitchen. She couldn't imagine such a nice little house existed without someone living in it. She listened to Harold's uneven steps on the hard floor as he followed her.

"Not at the moment," he answered.

John then entered, brushing past Harold and leaned over the kitchen sink, pulling the blinds down over the window. Tasha found herself automatically stepping away from him, like he was a strange force of power that she knew she couldn't contend with. Maybe she just wasn't fully convinced just yet that he wasn't there to hurt her.

Harold sat himself down at the circular wooden table in the room. He set a laptop on the table and opened it up.

The surreal feeling had not yet gone away. Tasha was with two men she'd just met, and they weren't with her for _her_. Well, wait, yes they were there for her, but not in the usual way she'd become accustomed to.

"Miss Murphy – "

Tasha let out an uncontrollable laugh and Harold looked up from his computer in confusion.

"I'm sorry," Tasha said, still smiling. "No one in my entire life has ever called me that."

"That's a shame," Harold observed as John joined him at the kitchen table.

"We need to know where you were yesterday," John said.

"During the day?" Tasha thought for a moment.

"The places you were, the people you saw," Harold said helpfully. "You see, Tasha, we are having difficulties linking you to any activity or group that would put your life in danger."

"See? I told you. I'm nobody. I'm nothing," she said.

"That is a matter of opinion, I expect," Harold said slowly. "Obviously, someone is after you, but we are having difficulty figuring who or why."

Tasha leaned against the island and tried to think. Sleep was still fogging her brain. "I ran some errands yesterday. I got my nails done, cashed a check, took the bus and visited a friend across town. I came home by about nine last night."

"What's your friend's name?" John asked.

"Claire Desmond," she said. "What's she got to do with anything?"

"We have to be aware of all of the variables, Miss Murphy," Harold said. Tasha kept herself from laughing at his propriety that time. He tapped away on the keyboard.

"Did you meet anyone besides your friend? Did anyone stand out as strange to you?" John asked.

Tasha shook her head without really thinking about it. "No, I don't think so. Not stranger than usual anyway."

"Claire Desmond," Harold said, reading from the computer. "She advertises as an escort online through a service."

"Classy," John said.

"It would seem so. She has no record that I can find."

"Claire's always been clean," Tasha said defensively.

"But," Harold said as if he didn't hear her. "She transferred a decent amount of money to another account just yesterday."

"You're in her – "

"How much?"

"Several thousand."

"Give me an address," John said, getting to his feet and walked out of the kitchen as Harold continued typing.

"You're just going to let him go and harass Claire while she's working?"

"Harassment is not in Mr. Reese's repertoire."

"In his what?"

Harold paused for a moment. "Mr. Reese does not harass people, Miss Murphy. That is, he doesn't unless they provoke him. As I said, we need to investigate every variable if we're going to find out who sent those men to kill you tonight. If your friend has nothing to hide, nothing will happen."

Tasha leaned on the counter of the island and sighed. Harold must have been watching her because she heard the laptop snap shut.

"Come on, it's a little more comfortable in the other room," he said, leading her out of the kitchen.

* * *

John hadn't come back for hours, but Harold seemed to be in contact with him still. He would speak out loud to no one in particular, and continue typing at the laptop.

Tasha stood at the window, peeking out of the curtains onto the dark street. They'd kept silent for a long time, Harold working at the computer, and Tasha restlessly trying out every seat in the room, then getting up to pace a little.

"All right," Harold said suddenly. "I'm checking."

Tasha watched him. He sighed. "Yes, she's telling the truth. Looks like a dead end, Mr. Reese."

Harold looked up at her. "Your friend isn't responsible for this."

"I told you that already," Tasha snapped, her fatigue getting the better of her.

"We had to be sure."

Tasha sat down on the couch next to him and looked around the room for the umpteenth time. "I wish this really was my house," she muttered, rubbing her bare arms as she watched Harold type.

He stopped and looked at her. "It would be nice, yes," he agreed. "It wouldn't keep you from being alone, Tasha. But you prefer that, don't you?"

Tasha's defenses went back up in a flash and she narrowed her eyes at him. "What do you know about it?"

Harold didn't rise to her angry tone. His expression remained passive, and he appeared to study her closely before he spoke again. "I know that you went from foster home to foster home when you were younger. No family was ever permanent. Moving around in such a way would make anyone feel that they could only rely upon themselves. Even more so in your case, I would imagine."

"What do you mean?" Tasha asked, stunned.

"Living in some of the… situations you lived in, many people would not have survived. Others most likely would not have wanted to. Your self reliance got you through everything, but at a great cost. Your trust, especially that of men, is not easily earned, if at all. That would explain your reaction to Mr. Reese earlier this evening."

Tasha wiped her eyes and nodded. "He scared me. He's very – I don't know, he's just so big, and dark and..."

"Believe me, I understand." Harold smiled a little at her. "Mr. Reese tends to have that effect on people. And that is only because he, like you, also has an interesting past."

Tasha glanced at the computer monitor and couldn't make anything out of the complex coding moving across one of the windows. "What are you doing?"

Harold hesitated. "I am – a government agency has a certain software that I find very useful. I am… borrowing it right now."

Tasha smiled with moist eyes. "Borrowing? What is it?"

"It is a facial recognition software that they use in surveillance footage. I am using it right now to find any matches for you."

"Me?"

"Yes," Harold turned toward her as he explained. "It may help us to answer that age old question. 'Why me?' In this case, it's 'Why Tasha Murphy?' We may find something on some surveillance footage somewhere."

He set the laptop down on the coffee table in front of them. "While that's running the search, I think I'll make us some tea. I like to keep my hands busy."

"There's food in here?" Tasha asked as he got up.

"Why? Are you hungry?"

"No."

Harold continued on to the kitchen, leaving Tasha alone in the front room with her thoughts. That nice little man had hacked his way into a government software program, into Claire's bank account, and, more importantly, into Tasha's life. Was this all from the source he talked about before? Or was he one of those mad, computer geniuses?

Well, Tasha thought, for one thing, he wasn't mad. He was very kind, almost sweet.

After a few minutes, Harold returned with two mugs of steaming tea. He handed one to Tasha and joined her on the couch again.

"What if it doesn't find anything?" she asked, taking a sip.

"We keep you hidden while we continue our search," Harold said without discouragement.

"And you guys just do this? You and John just save people?"

Finch tilted his head and half shrugged, setting his tea down to cool. "More or less."

Tasha set her cup down as well. "Thank you," she said.

"Nothing's happened yet."

"No, you don't understand," Tasha exhaled and looked at him. "I've never been… taken care of before. No one's ever looked after me before. It's a weird feeling," she shifted a little closer to him on the couch. "And no one's ever been so nice to me, Harold. And honest."

The tears were coming again as she leaned forward and kissed Harold softly on the mouth. He twitched under her touch, and she felt his hands come up to her arms. He pushed her away just as footsteps came into the room.

Harold still held onto her as they glanced up to see John standing in the doorway. His expression wasn't exactly readable, but a shadow had come over his eyes. "I can come back later, Finch," he said.


	4. Hit

"I'm so sorry, Harold," Tasha apologized quickly, and scooted away from him.

Finch didn't respond. He exchanged a long look with John before he got off of the couch, and went into the kitchen. He knew John was following him though his footsteps were silent.

Tasha had caught him completely off guard, and that rarely happened. Before he knew it, she was there, and it took him even longer to react and think to push her away. But, the damage had been done. If 'damage' was the applicable word, however. Finch wasn't quite sure of that.

"That's not really your color," John sniped, tossing a dish towel at him.

Finch wiped his mouth leaving red lipstick that had rubbed off from Tasha stained on the checkered towel. "She instigated it, Mr. Reese."

John raised his eyebrows. "Of course she did. I know you wouldn't be the man to take advantage of an emotionally vulnerable _prostitute_."

His words were cutting, and Finch suddenly had the urge to wash his face. "Judging someone by what they do for a living is a mistake that you of all people should not make, Mr. Reese."

The message was received and understood from what Finch could tell. John glowered at him, but didn't say anything further.

"Excuse me," Tasha said.

John and Finch's eyes snapped to Tasha, standing in the kitchen doorway. Finch had a some difficulty looking at her.

"Um, Harold, I think your computer found something," she said, pointing over her shoulder into the living room.

* * *

The video was accessed once Harold worked his way into the feed, and the three of them watched the sped up surveillance video at a bus terminal yesterday afternoon.

"Stop," John said. "Back it up."

Harold did so. Tasha sat next to him on the couch, John hovering over them from behind.

"There! That's me," she said. The footage was at an angle to the bench Tasha was sitting on. But her face was almost in full view. Her legs were crossed, and her hands were busy with her phone as another man sat down next to her, and got up again soon after.

"He does something there, what's he doing?" John asked, thinking out loud.

Finch backed up the footage again. The three of them leaned in closer, watching every detail of the pixilated video.

"He touched my purse!" Tasha said.

"One more time, Finch," John instructed.

On the third viewing, Tasha leaned in even further, squinting at the screen and saw the man's hand slip into her purse and back out again. Nothing was in his hand.

"It was a plant," John said, standing up.

"Where is your purse, Miss Murphy?" Harold asked without looking at her.

Tasha went into the kitchen, grabbed her purse from the island and brought it back out, considering what was in it. After a little, helpless shrug, she upturned the purse and dumped out all of its contents onto the seat of an easy chair.

John walked over and looked through the pile with his eyes only as Tasha sat on the floor and began picking items up one by one and placing them back in the purse.

"You must be preparing for an attack that the rest of us don't know about," he said.

Tasha glanced at the pile again. Amongst the tampons, flavored condoms, prescriptions, and other items, there was the tazer, a fog horn, a can of MACE, and another, smaller tazer.

She shrugged and looked up at John. "I've had to use all of them except for the fog horn."

"Why didn't you try it out earlier?" he asked.

"I've been told that it can cause permanent hearing damage." Though he gave the impression that he was kidding with her, Tasha bristled at him anyway. "What was I supposed to do? You could have been the Long Island serial killer for all I knew!"

"The what?" John asked.

"Since two thousand and seven there has been a string of murders linked to one person who has not been identified by police yet," Finch explained without looking up from the computer. "The bodies of the victims were found several months later, if that. All of them were young women of Miss Murphy's occupation."

He'd stopped calling her Tasha. She noticed the second time and beat herself for it. The nicest man she'd ever met, and she went and scared him away like chasing after a little bird.

"Jack the Ripper," John said.

"A lot of the girls keep close tabs on each other because of him," Tasha said. "We always tell someone where we're going to be, how long we'll be there, stuff like that." She continued sifting through the pile of crap that she dumped out of her purse. "All of this mine, guys. Maybe he didn't put anything in it." She stuffed her wallet back in and slipped her phone into her pocket.

"Check it again," John said as his phone rang. He stepped into the kitchen to answer it as Tasha rolled her eyes, and dumped her purse out again onto the floor this time.

John swept back into the room. "Finch, send that video to me. Carter and Fusco just arrived at a homicide that looks fishy."

"Fishy?"

"That's how she put it. I asked her to watch out for any strange calls or reports that might have to do with our girl," John nodded to Tasha before he went out the door.

"So, there are more of you guys? It's not just you two?" she asked as she filled up her purse again.

"Mr. Reese was referring to two NYPD detectives who assist us when needed." Harold's explanation was short and clipped.

"Cops? He told two _cops_ about me?" Tasha said angrily.

Harold looked into her eyes for the first time since she kissed him. "They are trustworthy, Miss Murphy – "

"Tasha," she demanded. "I'm sorry, Harold. You are the nicest man I've ever met. I didn't mean to... freak you out like that. I don't want to scare you away."

"It's all right, Tasha," Harold said quietly.

Tasha rubbed her eyes and yawned.

"You've had a long night," Harold said. "There are a few bedrooms upstairs if you'd like to sleep for a few hours."

Tasha nodded and got awkwardly to her feet as she took her hair down. Her eyes were beginning to cross and her limbs felt heavy at the very mention of sleep. She stepped out of the room and found the staircase, but stood at the bottom landing as she looked up to the second floor.

"Harold?"

A moment passed and Harold poked his bespectacled face around the corner. "Yes?"

"Will you come up with me? Just stay with me until I go to sleep? I won't come near you, I promise," she smiled sheepishly, ashamed that she was asking for anything at all, especially something that a four-year-old would ask for.

Harold went away for a few seconds. She heard the uneven footsteps move away, then come back towards her. He carried the closed laptop in one arm as he joined her at the bottom of the stairs.

* * *

She stifled a yawn with some effort, and brushed a few loose strands of hair out of her face as she squatted down next to the body. One of the forensics officers handed her a pair of blue, rubber gloves.

"What have we got?" she asked.

The forensics officer squatted down next to her, looking much too bright eyed for as late as it was, or early depending on how you looked at it.

"Single gunshot wound to the left temple, with burns around the entry point. Very little blood, though."

"Point blank, and it wasn't done here," Carter mumbled to herself.

"What's it look like, Carter?" Detective Fusco approached and stood next to her, looking down at the body.

"Like a dead person," she said without thinking. "Sorry, Fusco," Carter stood up next to him. "I'm a little cranky."

"Aren't we all?" he asked. Carter couldn't figure if he was being ironic or not.

"Single shot to the head, point blank. But he bled out somewhere else. There's hardly any blood here."

"Any ID?"

"Not even a piece of lint in his pockets."

"A hit?"

"Looks like it. And a clean one too. Whoever did this knew what they were doing," she lifted her eyes past the flashing lights of the now useless ambulance and saw a familiar face. "And speak of the devil…"

She and Fusco approached the strange paramedic, lingering in the shadow of the ambulance, away from everyone else.

"Should I arrest you, or are you just picking out your Halloween costume a little early?" she asked, the crankiness back in her voice.

John smiled. He seemed to like it when she got testy with him, and it bugged her even more. "Who is the victim?"

"We don't know," Fusco answered before Carter could snap at him again. "There was no ID. Looks like a hit."

"Tell me," John pulled out his phone and handed it to Carter. "Does this guy look like your vic?"

Carter watched a surveillance video of a city bus terminal. A woman sat on the bench, waiting, as a man, short, but broadly built, sat down next to her. Carter held the phone closer to her bleary, tired eyes and watched every detail. He slipped his hand into the woman's purse, and went away.

"It sure does," she said, handing the phone back to John.

"How did you know?"

"I'm a good guesser, Lionel," John said vaguely. "The woman at the bus terminal is now hiding from some people who came after her earlier tonight. We don't know why yet, but I'm _guessing_," he looked specifically at Fusco, "that this guy is involved somehow."

"The guy is dead now, in case you didn't notice." Lionel said. Carter's crankiness seemed to be spreading.

"That's where your job comes in, Lionel, Carter. When you find anything on him, let me know. Sooner rather than later, if you can," John backed further into the shadow of the ambulance, took off the jacket and hat, tossing them into the back of the ambulance, and walked across the street.

* * *

Tasha lay on her side, sound asleep in her clothes, on the bed in the master bedroom. Finch sat in a chair close by, his eyes on the computer monitor as she breathed evenly.

Her lovely red hair spread out on the pillow like a frozen wave on the sand. Finch continued to force himself not to look at it, or how it curled around her neck in a strange, protective way.

"I'm coming back, Finch," John said through the earpiece he wore.

"Any new developments?" Finch whispered.

"Maybe. Carter's latest homicide is the guy in the video with Tasha at the bus terminal. It was a hit. One shot, and they left no ID. We're dealing with some muscle here."

"Perhaps we should move Miss Murphy just to be on the safe side," Finch suggested, glancing over to the sleeping woman on the bed.

"I think that can wait for another few hours. I'm on my way right now."

Finch didn't respond, his attention back on the computer when a muffled sound pulled him back. He glanced over the monitor at the doorway, to the hall that led to the stairs. He waited.

A soft thud reached him, sounding like it came from downstairs. Harold closed the laptop and set it down as he moved quietly to the doorway and listened.

A louder crash, and the distinctive sound of splintering wood came from the downstairs front entry way. Harold sprung into action. He stepped into the hallway and shut all of the doors on the second floor, then moved back into the master bedroom.

He shut the door, locked it, and wedged the chair he was sitting in against the doorknob.

"Tasha," he whispered as he turned off the lights. "Tasha, wake up!"

"Finch?" John said through the earpiece. "What's going on?"

"What? What time is it? Oh Lord, did I miss our date _again_?" Tasha slurred.

Harold stepped over to the other side of the bed and helped Tasha sit up. "Tasha! Are you awake?"

In the little light coming through the window, Harold saw Tasha's lovely eyes refocus and blink at him. "Harold? What's wrong?"

"They've found us."

"Hide yourselves as much as you can. If you can get her out, Finch – "

"I understand, Mr. Reese," Finch said in frustration.

"I'm coming. Stay hidden."

Tasha's eyes widened in fear and she gripped onto his arms. "Where's John?"

"He's on his way," Harold said. "Come on." He took her hand and they moved to the window.

Crashes and loud footfalls came from the floor below them as the intruders searched the downstairs. They only had a minute at the most.

Finch opened the window and leaned out of it, looking on either side. "There isn't a lot to hold onto in order to climb down."

Tasha leaned out next to him. "I might as well let them shoot me if I tried this."

"Just hide then," John said in his ear.

Footsteps thundered up the stairs and stopped, reaching the second storey landing.

"Get in the closet, Tasha."

"What about you?" she asked.

"I have an idea."

Tasha allowed him to shove her into the small closet and close the door. "Stay as quiet as possible."

"Now is not the time to be the hero, Finch," John warned.

"You can't be the only one to know when those moments are appropriate, Mr. Reese," Finch kicked off his shoes and lay down on the bed where Tasha had been. He took off his glasses, setting them on the bedside table just as a loud bang hit the door to the bedroom.

Gunshots went off and the door burst open as Finch reached up and turned on the lamp.

"What are you doing?" he asked as a few men entered the bedroom. He fumbled for his glasses, looked at their guns and put his hands up. "I don't really have anything worth stealing," he said in a shaky voice.

"Where's the girl?" One of the men said.

"I don't know who you mean. I live here alone."

"She's here, foureyes. You are going to tell me where."

Finch had to physically control his reaction to the dumbest insult ever to be uttered in the English language. "There is no girl here. Just me. Perhaps you have the wrong house?"

"I'm almost there, Finch," John said.

Finch's offhanded, yet hopeful suggestion had a couple of the men lowering their weapons a little, questioning if they really had burst into the wrong place.

"If you leave now, I won't call the police."

The self designated spokesmen for the group of outlaws stepped forward. He grabbed Finch by the necktie and yanked him up to his feet. Finch resisted the urge to look to the closet in order to reassure Tasha.

The gunman pressed his weapon against the center of Finch's forehead. "I'm going to count to three. Tell me where she is and you live. If you're still quiet when I'm finished counting, you die. Makes no difference to me."

"One."

Finch closed his eyes and held his breath.

"Two."

A loud fumbling came from the closet, and the door opened. Tasha jumped out. "No, don't! Stop! Don't hurt him!"

She pushed Finch aside and stood in front of the gunman. Her hair spilled over her back and shoulders, and her face was flushed with fear, but she held her ground next to Finch.

"Tasha, please," Finch said, pushing her behind him. "This woman is innocent in all of this," he said. "She has no idea what you're after."

The gunman took a step away. He smiled a little at the picture of two apparently helpless and desperate people standing in front of him like frightened children. "We don't know exactly what it is either, friend."

Now Finch was his friend. What a drastic change of opinion in such a short time!

"We only know that it's very important to an employer of ours. That's what matters."

Finch swallowed back his questions. "But she knows nothing about it, do you understand? She would be of no help in finding whatever it is."

"We've heard otherwise," he reached for them, but Finch backed away with Tasha behind him.

"I'm already tired of you." The gunman lifted his weapon and fired. Finch fell back into Tasha. "Harold!" she screamed as she lowered him gently to the floor. "No! Harold."

"Take her."

Finch's breath turned shallow. He saw a red blur overhead as Tasha hovered over him. Her hands moved to his face. "You'll be okay, Harold. Look at me, come on. You're gonna be okay – "

She screamed when she was ripped away from him. "Harold!" she screamed his name as they hauled her out. "No! Let me _go_! Harold!" Helpless, Finch heard them move her all the way down the stairs until they muffled her screams and took her out.

The pain was astronomical. Each breath was painful, moving would be worse. Finch lie alone on the floor, blood coming through his shirt. He wasn't sure if he blacked out for a moment, because the next thing he saw was a dark figure looming over him.

John's face came into focus above him. It was lined with worry. "Stay awake, Harold," he said. Finch felt the pressure of John examining the wound.

"They took her," Finch wheezed.

"I know." John lifted him gently, and pulled him off of the floor.

"Come on, I've got you."


	5. Want

Yes, I did already post this chapter once before. I deleted it because there were some things about it that I didn't like enough that I wanted to go over it again. Sorry to those who already read it! Consider that one a rough draft. :P  
This one will stay up, I promise!

* * *

The air was cold, especially for summer. Tasha was pushed into a room that she didn't recognize. She was pushed again and landed on the floor, on her side. A plastic mat stuck to her cheek as she lifted herself up to a sitting position.

Lights were turned on and she looked around. She was sitting on the floor, gagged and her hands cuffed behind her, in what looked like a garage. There were work benches and tools sitting to one side, and a large metal door in front of her.

The three man band that took her away from Harold stepped onto the mat, surrounding her.

Harold. Tasha prayed that he was all right. He was the last thing that she saw, lying there on the floor, red staining his shirt and vest. It was because of her that he was hurt. She'd never be able to forgive –

"Listen up, whore," the apparent leader of the group spoke up. She heard one of the others call him Crow. He called her whore whenever he addressed her, and yet she preferred that to his ridiculous name. All crows did was crap on everything and pick at corpses. They were scavengers. Maybe there was reasoning behind his name after all. "You're worth less than shit to me. Tell us what we need to know, and we'll let you go. I'll even let you call whoever you want to come pick you up," he took Tasha's phone out of his pocket and set it on the mat, out of her reach. "If you don't, you'll face the same thing your friend did back there."

His mere mentioning of Harold angered her much more than she expected. They had already searched her, twice. Even though she was accustomed to having a man's hands on her, that was the most uncomfortable she'd felt. That phone was all that they found.

Crow pulled the gag out of Tasha's mouth. She licked her lips and worked to moisten the inside of her mouth again. "You might as well shoot me now," her voice was raspy from screaming. "I told you before, I have no idea what's going on."

Crow smiled, it wasn't pleasant. "You were the hand off, whore. Do you know how I know that?"

"You're probably gonna tell me."

"We had the pleasure of speaking to your contact before we killed him. He said, very honestly, that he handed it off to you."

"I don't even know what it is!" Tasha shouted at him. "If he handed me anything, don't you think I'd know what it was?"

She got hit across the face for her sass.

"My boss is on his way here. You'll want to talk to me instead of him."

"I don't want to talk to either of you."

He smacked her again, in what was becoming the longest night of her life.

* * *

Finch was familiar with pain. He managed his own pain on a daily basis, and normally, he dealt with it just fine. But there was no way he could have prepared himself for the pain that tiny bullet caused him. Even though, after examining the wound, John said it wasn't as bad as it looked, Finch had a hard time believing him.

"Bullet's out, Harold," John said. "That's the worst of it."

"I'm inclined to disagree, Mr. Reese," Finch said in a shaky voice. He sat next to John on the couch as John worked on his upper chest, where the bullet hit the muscle just below the collar bone. His shirt was pulled back, exposing he injury as John cleaned it.

"You're lucky. It could have been a lot worse, especially as close as he was."

"Could that have been intentional?"

"Maybe. I doubt these guys, whoever they are, would want to leave a body trail behind them. If we ever find out who they're working for, it might shed a little more light on things." John sounded frustrated as he bandaged Finch up.

"I'm doing my best, Mr. Reese," Finch said irritably as John finished and got up off of the couch. "We need to find Tasha first." He put his hand to his forehead as he thought.

"They'll keep her alive as long as they think she knows something."

"And when they realize that she doesn't?"

John's lips thinned and Finch nodded as he looked at the floor. Tasha's purse sat next to the chair across from him. It stood open. Finch squinted at it for a moment.

"What is it?" John asked.

"It looks like a tear in the lining of Tasha's bag," Finch said curiously.

John seized the purse and upturned it. Once it was empty, he found it. "It's pulled away from the seam."

Finch heard a tearing sound as John ripped the lining further out of the purse and something dropped out of it, falling to John's feet. He picked it up, examined it for a moment, then handed it to Finch.

"It's an SD card adapter," Finch said immediately, holding the small, rectangular device in his fingers. "With a few modifications, and," he popped it open, "an SD card."

John was already gone. When he returned, he held Finch's laptop under his arm and set it down in front of him. "How's the pain?" he asked as Finch winced and opened the laptop.

"It's steady as ever. Just below agonizing on the general scale."

Finch inserted the SD card and opened it on the desktop. "It looks like there's just one file on here, a video format."

He double-clicked on it, and the video started.

Finch and John leaned forward as the video started with the view of a lovely, tropical beach. The sun was high and bright in the sky. The quality of the video indicated that it was taken on a cell phone.

"There he is," a young, male voice said in the video, Finch assumed it was that of the camera operator.

The picture zoomed in to a section of the beach. It showed a single man, thin and pale, wearing swimming trunks. His sandy hair was long in the front, hiding an obviously receding hairline.

"He lives in the beach house that's on the hill," the voice continued. The picture panned further inland to a structure about a half mile from the beach. "He usually only comes down at night for a swim. But not today." The picture panned back to the beach, and man taking the video chuckled. "Freddie De Kamp was blown up in February two thousand twelve, so everybody thinks. Today is June twentieth, same year, and there he is. Doesn't look very dead to me. And how many people died in that explosion? That explosion that was meant for him. Four or five?" The question was rhetorical. Mr. Cameraman knew exactly what he was doing and what he was planning.

"Son of a bitch," John muttered.

The footage was shaky, but it was clear enough to make out, with certainty, one of the richest men in the world who had faked his own death last winter. Finch stared in disbelief at the video. He remembered watching the surveillance video from the safety of HR the night that De Kamp supposedly died; hearing Sam's screams and choking on the smoke from over the phone as she tried to find John after the bombs had gone off. Cleverly, De Kamp wanted to make it look like an elaborately planned assassination. Only a handful of people, including the three people who were trying to save his life at the time, knew what had really happened.

The video still had time left, but Finch stopped the playback.

"The repercussions of this getting out in the open would be… insurmountable," Finch stammered, and looked up at John. "The media circus alone would be – "

"Who would lose out the most if this hit the fan?" John asked.

"Besides De Kamp?" Finch seized the computer and began typing away in spite of the shooting pain that came and went. "De Kamp had no children, no one to directly inherit. The person in charge of the estate is a Cornell Sandfeir, a friend and confident to De Kamp. They would both end up in prison at the very least for fraud, endangering civilians, and other charges that I'd have do some research to find."

"Don't forget manslaughter," John added angrily.

"Sandfeir and De Kamp are depending on the cover of his death to be permanent. De Kamp wanted to get away from it all, and Sandfeir, I would imagine, is perfectly happy being in charge of… everything."

Finch sat back on the couch. "She did have it. She had it the entire time. And this," he held up the case for the SD card, "is equipped with a GPS signal. It is weak, but that's all you need."

"That's how they found us."

"Eventually," Finch said. "They found us eventually, Mr. Reese." He slipped the SD card into his pants pocket, dropped the case onto the floor and stomped down on it until he heard a snap. He lifted his foot, revealing the mangled remains of the case.

"It won't be as easy for them a second time," he said.

"They'll eventually find out that she doesn't have it either way." John glanced at the pile of stuff on the floor that came out of Tasha's purse. "Wait. Harold? Where's her phone?"

* * *

Tasha's head hung low over her chest. She felt the swelling in her eye and the blood on her lip. Of all the things she could do, she just wanted to go to sleep. Her mind was fogging up, and it was getting more difficult to focus on what that idiot was saying. This was familiar, though. This was what she knew: a man who could only express himself through the physical.

"You know," he squatted down on the floor in front of her. "There are other people like you and me who are probably after the same thing."

"Where are they now?" Tasha asked. "They're probably closer to finding it than you are."

That earned her another hit across the face with his fist. Tasha tasted more blood and felt the warmth of it oozing from somewhere near her eye.

Crow observed her for a second. Tasha met his eyes and saw a strange look that she'd never quite gotten used to. She tried sitting up straighter, and keeping eye contact with him.

"Wait outside," Crow said to the two other men, standing by the door. They left the garage, leaving Tasha alone with her interrogator.

He stepped away for a moment, and returned. He sat down next to her on the mat, and reached towards her. Tasha flinched and tried moving away.

"Take it easy," he said, lifting a piece of paper towel to her head and dabbing the blood away. He did the same to her lip.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I was just thinking. Maybe if I just use you like you're supposed to be used, I'll get some answers." When he finished cleaning her face, Crow grabbed a chunk of her hair and pulled her head back with it, exposing her throat and her breasts in the tank top.

Tasha swallowed, keeping her eyes on the ceiling. If it came to that, she'd dealt with worse. There was always worse.

He moved in front of her, forcing himself in between her legs until his body pressed against hers. Tasha glanced at her phone on the floor next to them, then back up at the ceiling.

"You do want it, don't you?" Crow said, his face coming closer to her. She felt his breath on her neck, the stubble of his cheek against her face as he whispered in her ear. They always thought that; they always believed that she wanted them as much as they wanted her. It never occurred to them how deluded that idea was. Oh, how she _hated_ them! She hated them when they looked at her like she was a piece of meat they were considering buying. She hated them when they wanted to call her certain names, or have her speak to them in one way or another, just the way they liked it. Selfish pigs! Bastards! This one was no different. She saw him thinking about having her before they got her into the handcuffs. She always saw it.

Tasha didn't answer him and tried breathing steadily as he moved his hand down her throat, over her breasts, to her torso. He smelled like smoke, sweat, and musty fabric. His fingers reached the button on her jeans and unfastened it. He unzipped her fly as he bent her back down onto the mat. His hand moved under her tank top, over her skin as he kissed her throat. Tasha blinked the tears away, her eyes on the ceiling and her hands pressed uncomfortably underneath her. If this was going to happen, if her life was about to end anyway, she'd make it on her own terms.


	6. Suits

"Just give me something, whore, and it will all go away," Crow whispered. "I'll leave you alone."

Finch and John were in the car, speeding toward the location of Tasha's phone as it transmitted the audio. John floored it at the suggestion of using rape as an interrogation technique. Finch could sense the anger radiating off of him.

Finch stared at nothing as they listened to Tasha's labored breathing. "Must he continue using that word?"

"He's a control freak," John said. "Calling her by her name, if he even cared about it, would lose him some of his control over her."

The GPS location of the phone was back across the East River. They were still fifteen minutes away at the very least. A lot could happen in fifteen minutes. Finch tried not to think about it.

"I told you," Tasha's voice shook in a barely controlled whisper. "I don't know anything. Just let me go, please."

They heard him chuckle a little at the suggestion, then more breathing.

John sped through the dark and empty streets, running lights in the hope that they would get there before anything happened.

No one spoke for several seconds. Finch sat in stunned silence, tracking the signal on Tasha's phone.

"You know," Tahsa's voice came into the car. It sounded almost… calm. "I'm a lot better with my hands in front of me."

"I don't doubt it," the man who stupidly called himself Crow replied.

"What the hell is she doing?" Finch asked.

John shushed him and listened.

"You'll be bad if I let you go."

"You want me to be, though, don't you?" Tasha's reply was quick and clever. Exactly what he wanted to hear.

"She's trying to play him. If he lets her go, she can gain the advantage. Smart."

"Dangerous," Finch corrected. "And if we assume these men are working for De Kamp or Sandfeir in order to recover the evidence, what others would be after this video?"

"Besides the media? I don't know, it sounded like an empty threat to me," John said with a shrug.

Finch looked at him, he was still thinking.

"But," John said slowly as he organized his thoughts. "Give this to certain people, and they'd love to blackmail De Kamp for the rest of his life, threatening to take it to the media. They'd know that he would never be able to get out of it by coming forward and telling the truth. He'd be trapped."

"And who do we know that would do that?" Finch asked.

John turned his head slowly and met his eyes.

* * *

Tasha's bound hands pressed painfully into her back as Crow lie on top of her.

"Just tell me where you left it," he whispered, his hands reaching the clasp of her bra under her tank top.

"I told you. I don't know anything about it," Tasha whispered back. "But, if you want kidnapping me to be worth a damn at all, untie my hands."

Crow's movement over her ceased, but he didn't get up or give her any indication that he was going to hit her again. Tasha saw a glint of silver out of the corner of her eye. He held switchblade in his hand and lowered it, underneath her back.

Tasha felt the bonds loosen and her hands were free. She lifted them up, pushing against Crow's shoulders. She pushed him off, giving herself just enough time to jam her knee hard into his crotch before he noticed what was happening.

Crow's face reddened and he groaned. Tasha hit him across the face and wriggled out from underneath him. She got to her feet, fastened her jeans up, and ran to the large door, screaming for help as she tried opening it.

"You bitch!" Crow yelled.

He still held the switchblade and came after her as the other door opened.

"What the hell are you doing?" The two men from before came back into the garage, followed by two other men, tall, wearing expensive looking suits and haircuts. They were serious money. Tasha could tell within the first few seconds.

"What is this?" The older one in a suit stepped forward, addressing Crow.

"She – uh – she nutted me. She knows where it is, boss," Crow lowered his head humbly and pointed at Tasha.

"Ah yes. The… Lady of the Evening, as it were? Well, has she told you?" he asked.

"She says she doesn't know."

The older man in the suit turned to the younger one. "And these are the people you recommended hiring to handle this?" he said disdainfully.

"I do apologize, my dear," Older Suit stepped forward, offering his hand to Tasha. "I do not blame you for being afraid. Judging from the state of your face, I also don't blame you for… nutting this gentleman."

Tasha stared at the man as if he just fell out of the sky. "I just want to go," she managed to say.

"And we'll let you go! I promise. But, my idiot employee over there tells me that you know something about the item we've been searching for." Older Suit stepped forward. Tasha backed into the door. "It is very important that we get this back into the right hands. You see, it truly is a matter of life and death." He joked with her, kept his voice gentle so he wouldn't spook her. But she was already spooked.

Tasha's frustration overflowed. "Don't you think I'd tell you if I knew anything? I swear on my life I don't know what you're talking about!" her shouts echoed around the large garage.

"Your life is worth shit, you dirty hooker!" Crow yelled at her from across the room, still bitter at Tasha gaining the advantage over him.

Old Suit pointed to the other suit. "Trace it, right now." The kindness left his voice as he turned to who Tasha assumed to be his assistant. The young man, also in an expensive suit, pulled out a tablet and started tapping the screen.

"It's gone," he said after a moment. "I'm not getting a signal anymore. Mr. Sandfeir, I swear – "

"Shut up, you incompetent ass!" Sandfeir shouted. He turned to Crow, who had been cowering in the background. "What can he mean, the signal is gone? You said that we'd be able to find it anywhere."

Crow's eyes darted back and forth around the room. Sandfeir had gone from looking like the kind old business man to a shark in a suit.

"It – it did! I mean, we can. That's what the guy said when we caught him. There's a signal for his guys to pick it up. The signal is weak, but we were able to find her with it!" He pointed at Tasha. "I don't know why it's not coming through now."

Sandfeir's eyes seemed to turn black. "Did you not consider the possibility that this woman was telling the truth? And now that you've wasted all of your time with her, it is _possible_ that someone else traced the item, and has destroyed the emitter?"

Crow looked positively terrified. They all did. Sandfeir's assistant was even backing away. Crow's two men were standing still as if they'd grown roots into the floor, and were waiting for the explosion.

"That guy said he passed it to her!" Crow said hysterically. "We traced it to her! That's how we found her."

"You," Sandfeir turned around, his face calm once again as he looked at one of Crow's men. "May I inspect your weapon?"

He didn't have to be asked twice. The gun was placed in Sandfeir's hand. Sandfeir held it with his finger on the trigger, turned, and shot Crow once in the head.

* * *

The car screeched to a halt in front of the building just as the gunshot went off. Finch's eyes were wide as the heard the shot from the building and from the transmission inside the car.

John didn't seem to be phased by it. He reached into the back seat and rummaged around as Finch wrapped his brain around what just happened.

"Sandfeir is literally willing to commit murder to protect this information." Finch said as John turned back around. "Mr. Reese. What exactly is that?"

John held an enormous black weapon of some kind. It didn't look like a rifle, or anything that fired bullets of any kind. "Grenade launcher," he said as he took what unmistakably was a grenade and loaded it into the launcher. He locked it in with a reassuring _thunk_, and opened the car door.

"Is that really necessary?" Finch asked.

John turned back around, one foot on the ground, the other still in the car. "Someone shot you, Harold, and threatened to rape our girl. Neither of those things sit well with me. And you know that I like to be thorough."

"Wait, John," Finch pulled the SD card out of his pocket. "I'd almost prefer it the other way around, Sandfeir and De Kamp being blackmailed for all that they're worth. But, if giving this to him means that no one else will get hurt…"

John took the SD card from Finch. "Don't worry, Harold. I'll make the right call."

* * *

Tasha couldn't move. She tried, but her body wouldn't obey her. She stood against the garage door, staring at Crow's lifeless body as it slumped to the floor.

"It looks as though we might have to start over, Gene," he said, addressing his nervous assistant.

"Yes sir," Gene nodded, his eyes glued to the tablet.

Sandfeir still held the handgun, and everyone waited for what he was going to do next. He looked from Gene to Tasha and smiled. "I'm not the monster you think I am, my dear," he said. "I'm a businessman. There is a difference. I'm actually very generous, in most cases." He looked at Crow's body as he spoke. "The difference is that a monster will kill no matter what. That is the nature of the beast. Me, on the other hand, I get what I want, I get things done. If that doesn't happen, then…" Sandfeir shrugged.

"What comes next then?" Tasha asked.

"You, poor thing, are suffering from a lethal case of being in the wrong place at the wrong time, I'm afraid. But, it's not a huge loss, thankfully, losing a hooker, wouldn't you say?" Sandfeir lifted the weapon and pointed it at Tasha.

Tasha closed her eyes and turned her head when they all heard a distinct rushing noise followed by a metallic _ting._ She opened her eyes as Sandfeir turned, and the wall closest to him exploded.

He and Gene were knocked onto their backs. The gun slid across the floor. Tasha, being the furthest away only felt the heat and some of the shock from the blast. Her hair blew back, but she remained upright and slid along the door as another _whoosh_ followed by the _ting_ came into the room. Tasha crouched down and covered her ears as the second explosion went off.

Crow's men were also knocked down, and Tasha saw her chance. She ran along the garage door, then to the far wall. As she reached the open doorway a tall figure stepped through it, holding a large weapon in his hands. He looked at Tasha, who was ready to run in the opposite direction until she realized who it was.

"John?"

"Stay right here," he said, and stepped into the room.

The four men were groaning, moving slowly on the floor as John came in. He towered over them like a black shadow, and descended upon Sandfeir first.

"You have really upset me, Cornell," John said darkly.

"Who the hell are you?"

"I'm the last person you will ever see if you don't listen very carefully."

John drew his weapon and pressed it against Sandfeir's forehead, pressing his knee into his chest. "I know you're looking for this." He held up what looked like a type of data card in between his thumb and forefinger. "I've watched it already, and it definitely would pique a lot of interest around town."

"Do you even know who you're talking to? I could ruin your – "

"I know that I'm the one who's talking right now." John pressed the weapon harder into Sandfeir's skull.

Tasha saw movement out of the corner of her eye. One of Crow's guys had his gun up, and was pointed it at John.

"No, John!" Tasha yelled.

John moved almost faster than she could see. He didn't change positions. His arm swung around, as he looked up and he fired. The shot hit the gunmen in the arm, his gun tumbled to the floor as he shouted in pain.

"Do me a favor and grab their weapons," he said.

Tasha ran up to Crow's men and took their handguns. She checked Gene, the assistant, for any weapons. He was unarmed aside from the data tablet. She ran across her phone, still on the floor, and pocketed it.

"If you kill me, the police will be all over you." Sandfeir said snobbishly.

"Who said anything about killing?" John asked simply.

She brought the weapons over and squatted down next to John.

"Thanks, Sam," he said without looking at her. Then, he shook his head once and slowly turned to look at her. "Sorry – Tasha."

"I've been called a lot worse," Tasha replied.

"You came here just to protect this slut?"

Tasha looked away, tired of the name calling, and just plain tired.

John pressed his knee harder into Sandfeir's chest. "I don't care for your choice of words, Mr. Sandfeir. If you shut up and listen for a second, I'll be out of your way." John waved the SD card in front of Sandfeir's now tearing eyes again. "I will give this to you so you can destroy it. But I will be watching you, Cornell. Very. Closely. I will know what kind of tissue you sneeze into. If you ever try pulling something like this again, I will kill you. And it will be in such a way that the police won't know where to start looking. Are we clear?"

Sandfeir nodded and John slid the SD card into his outside suit pocket before standing up. He took Tasha by the hand and started toward the door.

"I don't respond well to threats, son," Sandfeir said when John was a few feet away. "You and your two dollar whore will pay for all of this!"

John stopped as Tasha kept going. She felt the pull on her hand and looked back at him.

Sandfeir was sitting up as John turned around and kicked him hard in the face. He was knocked back to the floor, his nose and lip bleeding. "This is your mess, Cornell. Clean it up."

Tasha couldn't stop her smile as John returned to her and took her hand, leading her outside as the dawn began to break.


	7. Kryptonite

Thanks to Carter and modern forensics, John and Finch received word later that morning that the man at the bus station was an ex con who had found a new place of employment recently. He'd been working for none other than Elias himself. The hand off to a random person would have worked, if John hadn't interfered with those first two men that night. Elias would have retrieved the SD card from Tasha without a hitch. But, John always managed to be a hitch. It's what he was good at.

In a way, Sandfeir was correct. Tasha had truly been in the wrong place at the wrong time.

After a further discussion and some thought, Tasha agreed that she should perhaps make herself scarce for the time being; just in case one side or the other tried to find her and make certain that she wouldn't talk ever again.

Two days later, a cab was waiting at the corner as Tasha brought down two suitcases from her apartment. Finch watched her walk to the corner and greet the cabbie as he took her bags. The top section of her red hair was pulled back, away from her face, and held in a clip at the back of her head. The rest of it draped beautifully over her shoulders. Finch admired it for a moment before he approached her as the cabbie opened the trunk. Her eyes immediately brightened when she saw him, just as they had when John brought her back to the car that early morning, and she saw that Finch was all right.

Finch would never admit it to a soul, but knowing that her reaction was because of him somehow made him feel like a better man, a better person. He carried a box tucked under his good arm, his other arm was held in a tight sling.

"Harold," Tasha said with a smile. "How's your shoulder?"

"Much better, thank you. I have made some arrangements at your new apartment. You won't have to worry about rent for a while," he said.

"What? Harold, I can't – "

"I am in full support of your fresh start, Miss Murphy."

Tasha glared at him.

"Tasha," Finch corrected himself.

"Thank you," Tasha said, looking down at her feet.

"While I was doing my research, I noticed your school transcripts were very good, until you dropped out, that is."

"That kind of puts a damper on it, doesn't it?" Tasha joked bitterly.

"That's why I've also taken the liberty of enrolling you in a few courses in order to get your GED. Online courses to start, just to ease you back into it."

Tasha looked up and stared wide eyed at him. Finch had to hide the strange feeling of delight at her expression. "Harold, no, that's too – I can't ask you to do that for me."

"You never asked me," Harold smiled happily. "You never ask at all, Tasha. I thought it was time that you learned your true worth. Think of it as an investment in that. Being independent has its benefits, but that can only take you so far."

Tasha blinked rapidly, fighting against the moisture in her eyes. "A GED – what am I supposed to do with that?"

Harold took a step closer to her and lowered his voice, "Anything you want." He reached into his pocket and handed her a handkerchief.

"Thank you," she said. "Thank you so much." Taking care not to injure his injury even further, Tasha hugged him and kissed him on the cheek. "Why are you so sweet, Harold? What makes a man as nice as you?"

"Well, I do read a lot," Finch said thoughtfully. "It may be just something a man learns along the way."

Tasha laughed, and brushed at her eyes for good measure. "Or your mamma just raised you right."

"That's also a possibility," Finch smiled. "Oh, I wanted you to have this," he held out the box to her. "Don't complain about it, I owe this to you anyway."

Tasha groaned as she took the box from him. She took off the bow and opened the lid. Inside was a brand new, genuine Gucci handbag, not unlike the cheap knock off John had torn apart.

Tasha laughed loudly. "Harold. This is the real thing. Mine was something I got for five bucks on thirty ninth street."

"I don't see the difference," Finch said.

Tasha hugged Harold again. "Thank you, for everything."

"You're welcome, Tasha." Finch looked up at saw John just across the street. Tasha glanced in the same direction.

She touched her fingers to her lips and waved. John replied with a little smile and a nod.

"By the way, who is Sam?" Tasha asked, keeping her eyes on John as Harold opened the cab door for her.

"Why do you ask?"

"John called me Sam by accident before. Who is it?"

Finch looked up at John then back at Tasha. "She's a friend of ours. Worked with us for a time. But she left town about a month ago."

Tasha got into the cab. "She must have been important to you guys."

Finch thought on it for a moment. "She was – is a very good friend."

"Maybe she'll come back, then." Tasha smiled and thanked Finch one more time before he closed the cab door.

He watched the cab drive away and walked across the street, meeting John at the opposite corner.

"Is she okay?" John asked.

"She will be, yes."

"Nice of you, taking care of her like that," John said.

Finch heard a lot of unspoken words in that sentence. "She deserves a second chance. I'm not so sure she even received a first one."

"That's true," John agreed as they started walking together. "It's kind of nice though, knowing what your Kryptonite is, Harold."

Finch looked up at John and studied him for a moment. "That analogy isn't very accurate, Mr. Reese," he said stiffly. "Kryptonite implies that whatever it is saps strength, makes a person weak and helpless, vulnerable."

"You don't think that's what was going on? You stood in front of a gun for her."

"On the contrary, a woman like Tasha – "

"Another redhead – "

"Would only be a source of strength for someone," Finch continued in spite of the light jab. "Besides, whether your kryptonite analogy is correct or not, I believe it is safe to say that we've already found yours, Mr. Reese."

Finch continued walking, well aware that John had stopped.

* * *

One more month later…

It was such a relief to get off of that blasted plane!

Sam tripped out of the gate and moved as fast as she could past the security checkpoints. She tried peering above the heads of everyone else, in search of a specific person. She never found them.

Instead, she found a burly looking man holding a sign with the name "Samantha" scrawled on it in big letters.

Sam approached him, her wheeled carry on dragging behind her.

"I was expecting Alina?" she said to him.

"Miss Watson is waiting in the car. Do you have any luggage?"

"Yes."

"I'll take care of it."

The large bodyguard tossed the sign into the nearest garbage can as Sam followed him through the rest of the airport, to the baggage claim.

Once they retrieved her bags, Sam continued with the bodyguard out to the pick up lanes. She stood with him, waiting in silence until a large, black limousine pulled up to the curb.

The back door opened and Sam first saw bright yellow stilettos attached to a pair of long, shapely legs. The rest of Alina emerged from the limousine and screamed happily when she saw Sam.

The women embraced as the bodyguard stored Sam's luggage in the trunk.

"It's so great to see you, honey," Alina said as the climbed into the limo.

"You seem to be doing pretty well for yourself," Sam stared, awestruck at the inside if the limousine after she sat down. "Back in New York and everything."

Alina rolled her eyes. "Part of the reason I left Colorado is because I hate it there. When I went back it reminded me. I was like, 'That's right! I hate it here.' and left as soon as I could. This is my city now. I can't stay away."

"I kind of feel the same way. Thank you for picking me up."

Alina waved Sam's thanks away with some heavily ringed fingers. "It's nothing. Where are we taking you? To your apartment?"

Sam cringed at the thought. If she went with her first instincts, she would just start scouring the city in search, but that wouldn't be smart. And the very thought terrified her for some reason.

"What's going on?" Alina asked suspiciously.

"I was kind of hoping I could crash with you for a little while." Sam raised her eyebrows.

"Sam, what is this? What are you doing?"

"I don't know," Sam said helplessly. "I don't want to go back home yet, is all. I left everything in… a lot of weirdness. And I just don't want to come back to all of it yet."

"To all of the weirdness?" Alina blinked her large, lovely eyes at her. "You've had your hair cut recently. You've been out of town for a while... Are you avoiding something?"

"Oh well done," Sam said sarcastically. "I'm avoiding everything, Alina. I'll tell you about it on the way to your place…?" Sam's voice lifted at the end of the sentence, implying the question.

"Every single detail," Alina said eagerly. "That'll be payment for staying in my guest room."

Sam smiled and thanked Alina again as the limousine pulled away from the airport and towards the city.

* * *

Thanks for reading and your reviews! Love it, love it! :)

Sam's back (obviously) in the next installment, entitled "Guardian".


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